


Sherstrade adventures

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Can I say slow burn if it's gonna happen in chapter 3?, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, I meant chapter 4, Imagine that, M/M, Massage, Touching, showering together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-28 16:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14452830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock doesn't think he has daddy issues... or a daddy kink and yet he starts to spend an awful amount of time in Greg's bedroom.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock scoffed when he managed to break into Greg's flat in less than five minutes. His DI might as well leave a note _please do break in_. Actually, that was going to be a great excuse for his breaking and entering, he was only checking how safe Greg and his belongings were.

While he was curious about Greg's private life, he didn't plan to invade his flat, at least not when Greg was most likely on his way home. The thought of getting caught red-handed was strangely enticing, but that wasn't Sherlock's main motivation. He was perfectly content with a quiet, relaxing evening in his flat, in his chair, but John brought one of his girlfriends home and clearly, the matters were so pressing that they couldn't reach his bedroom and stayed on the sofa. Sherlock walked in on them and got quite an eyeful. To make matters worse, John neither stopped completely nor did he apologise. Needless to say, Sherlock required a place to spend the night where he didn't need to cover his eyes and ears.

Even before he weighed his options, he had already started walking to Greg's flat. He had been there before, months before he met John, but at that time he was too intoxicated to snoop around properly. The memory made the corners of his mouth curve upwards, against his will. Once again he remembered that Greg had seen him at his lowest and didn't abandon him. 

 

He slept for no more than a half an hour when he was rudely woken up. At first, he couldn't tell what was more baffling: the bedroom he didn't recognise or a half-dressed man leaning over him. The room was dimly lit, he didn't see the figure above him well enough to know who it was, but there was no fear. Greg, he realised, he was at Greg's.

'Care to explain what are doing here?' Greg sounded exasperated. 'Re-enacting the tale of the Three Bears? You ate my leftovers, sat in my chair and now I find you in my bed.'

Sherlock told him what drove him to such extremes, quickly and a bit too loudly. He felt something strange, something pleasant and new when he was lying on his back on Greg's bed and Greg was towering over him and didn't know what to think about that.

'Fine, you can stay the night,' Greg decided and continued the action he had started before he found Sherlock. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders. Sherlock found himself staring at him, for reasons he didn't want to name. He couldn't see much in the half-dark, but still, he couldn't bring himself to look away. He watched as Greg unbuckled his belt and remembered the night Greg was comfortably seated in Sherlock's chair, with his legs apart and a smirk and his belt clearly visible. All of that made Sherlock so flustered he stuttered and gestured wildly. He thought it was only embarrassment of airing his dirty laundry in front of a new friend. Now he wasn't so sure.

Greg unzipped his trousers and took them off, leaving a puddle of fabric on the floor. Next were the socks. All that was left was his underwear. Sherlock ordered himself to close his eyes or cover his face with the duvet or pretend he fell asleep. He continued to stare.

'I hope there's some hot water left,' Greg mumbled and went to the bathroom.

Sherlock wanted to sleep and not think about what was happening behind the bathroom door. He heard the water running. Greg was taking a shower, his soapy hands washing his shoulders and his stomach and his... legs. Sherlock shook his head in a vain attempt at pushing away those thoughts. He didn't want to admit why the image of a naked and soaking wet Greg made his cheeks burn.

Greg came back, wearing only pyjama bottoms and lifted the duvet from the other side of the bed. Sherlock's nearly gasped. He assumed Greg would sleep on the cough, like a good host, but that was clearly not what Greg had in mind. Suddenly Sherlock realised how small the bed was. Not as wide as his own. They would have to lie close to each other. Very close.

Greg noticed his reaction and said, 'I've had a long day. I'll have a long day tomorrow. Need rest. If you want to sleep on the sofa, be my guest.'

And he lay next to Sherlock, on his back. Their shoulders were almost touching. Sherlock considered shifting away from him, although that could result in falling off the bed. He wasn't too keen on spending the night on the questionably comfortable sofa. There appeared to be no choice. He lay on his side, facing the wall and tried to ignore the warmth of Greg's body right behind him and his slow breaths. He didn't think Greg might take advantage of the situation. Something else was making Sherlock restless. He couldn't relax enough to sleep. He suddenly realised he had never shared a bed with anyone, not even when he was little. Lying next to a sleepy man, under the same duvet, feeling him move occasionally, that was new. Unexpectedly not unpleasant. Sherlock wasn't sure what to think about that.

He was woken by Greg's alarm. The annoying sound interrupted his dream and not only that. Sherlock, still groggy, gradually became aware of the following things: he had never been more at peace, his head was resting on Greg's shoulder and his face was buried in Greg's neck. His arm was on Greg's stomach and his hand was covered by Greg's. There was no chance of moving away discreetly, Greg was awake as well. Awake and not embarrassed by the situation. He moved to grab his phone and Sherlock instantly tightened his hold.

Once the room was silent again, Greg yawned and stretched like a contented cat. He glanced at Sherlock and knew he was awake, too. Instead of a comment, any comment about Sherlock's position, he simply smiled and muttered, 'I'll make breakfast. Want anything?'

Sherlock didn't expect that. Greg wasn't alarmed by their cuddling. And by another thing. Sherlock noticed it only when Greg moved away from him to get up. Sherlock was hard. His morning erection was right against Greg's thigh. He must have felt it but said nothing.

The smell of coffee and toasts and eggs was tempting, but Sherlock only joined Greg in the kitchen when he contained his excitement. He opened his mouth to explain himself, but Greg wasn't waiting for that. He was finishing making scrambled eggs and told Sherlock where he kept mugs.

They ate in silence. Greg was ravenous, he emptied his plate faster than Sherlock and washed the last bite of his toast with the rest of his coffee. Not a single word about _that_.

Sherlock wanted to say something, anything. He would hate it if Greg started avoiding him. But Greg seemed fine. He left Sherlock in the kitchen and came back after a few moments, already dressed and ready for the day.

'Do you need a lift or are you going back to bed?'

Bed. Greg's bed. It was still warm and smelled like him, like both of them.

'Lift, thank you.'

They didn't talk in the car. Greg helped Sherlock with his seatbelt and drove him to Baker Street. Sherlock could lean back in his seat, close his eyes and pretend they were still in Greg's bedroom. The muffled noise of the traffic and Greg's voice humming a song almost lulled Sherlock back to sleep. He felt odd when it was over and he had to get out of the car and walk to his flat. Wearing the same clothes as the day before, like someone coming home from a long date. To make it worse, John's girlfriend was doing the same, they met on the stairs.

John was nowhere to be seen. It was still too early for Sherlock. He didn't undress, didn't shower. He lay on his own bed. He could almost feel Greg's body against his.

 

A couple of days later he was back at Greg's. They came there together, straight from Greg's office. Sherlock went to tell him about the result of his investigation. He had been observing a murder suspect, a clever one. Not clever enough to fool Sherlock, though. The man left the murder weapon in the victim's house, hid the knife among her own. But it was a part of the ritual, the weapon and he needed it back. All Sherlock needed to do was to sit and wait for him. But hours of hiding in the kitchen, in all sorts of uncomfortable positions caused back pain. Greg saw him wincing when he sat down and asked what was the matter. Sherlock still wasn't sure how they went from purely professional conversation to a massage.

It was obviously best to do it in the privacy of Greg's flat. Sherlock tried to relieve the pain in the car, but his own attempts at massaging his lower back were far from satisfying. He wanted Greg to see that it was serious and not at all a sneaky way of getting back into his bedroom.

They didn't waste time. Sherlock took off his coat and his jacket. He hesitated with the shirt, perhaps he would only pull it up. Greg said he had the oil in the bedroom. They went there and Sherlock tried not too look at the small bottle Greg took out of the drawer. He didn't want to know if it was only a massage oil or another type of oil for other sorts of activities.

Greg saw he hadn't taken off his shirt and asked, 'Is it just lower back pain? If so, leave your shirt on.'

Sherlock's left shoulder was suddenly aching too.

He lay on the bed, face down. He couldn't focus on the memories of his previous night there or on the exciting new kind of tension he was starting to feel, the pain was distracting. Distracting enough to forget his lower back was still covered.

Greg chuckled at the sight and started rolling up his sleeves. 'I don't want you to have oil stains on your trousers.'

Sherlock groaned when he pushed a hand under his stomach to undo his trousers. He moved to sit up, but Greg stopped him with a hand on his back. 'Let me,' he said and touched his hip to encourage him to lift up.

Sherlock didn't refuse. Greg reached around, opened Sherlock's trousers and pulled them down, revealing the bare skin. Out of all days that he ignored underwear, that was the most memorable one. Greg uncovered only the upper half of his bottom. He climbed onto the bed. Sherlock again lay flat, biting his lip in anticipation. He heard a wet sound behind him, Greg was warming the oil in the palm of his hand. That was the last moment to crawl away and suffer in silence in a cab.

Sherlock stayed. He planned to be quiet, but the first touch of Greg's hands made him gasp. He wasn't used to being touched. Greg's large, slick hands slid up and down his back, spreading the oil. Slowly, softly. And then a little harder. Sherlock couldn't contain a low groan when Greg applied more pressure. He was kneading his lower back, massaged the muscles anywhere he could reach. He didn't realise Greg was that strong. He loved finding that out.

'Not too hard?' Greg paused after another deep groan from Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the impulse to lean into the touch, keep Greg's hands on him. 'No, no. You can go harder, I don't-' he stopped mid-sentence and frowned at his words. He knew it was only a massage, a platonic one and not a foreplay. 'Ah!' He gasped when Greg continued, using more force than before. 'Oh!'

'Yeah, it hurts so good, doesn't it,' Greg said, sounding smug.

Sherlock whimpered in response. Greg was right. His fingers were digging into his sore muscles and Sherlock didn't protest, didn't ask him to be gentle. He had never felt that way before. He didn't understand why he melted into the bed, what made him so pliant and responsive. He gave up on controlling the sounds he made with every strong stroke. The ache that brought him there dissolved into a something sweeter. Greg carried on.

He worked his way up Sherlock's back, his thumbs tracing the curve of his spine. He focused on Sherlock's left shoulder, moved his hand from his neck to his shoulder. Sherlock turned his head to the side to see it, letting Greg see his face. Greg added more oil and massaged the aching area more firmly. Sherlock pressed his face into the duvet, hiding his blissed expression. He imagined Greg grabbing his shoulder to pull him back, over and over again. He suddenly became aware of Greg's legs almost touching his hips. He wondered what would happen if he lifted his bottom and started grinding against Greg's lap.

Sherlock finally noticed how exactly his body responded to the massage. Sexual arousal wasn't something he experienced often, not since he became adult. Maybe it was the stress or the drugs, or not the right touch. Greg noticed he became tense again, he must have. Sherlock didn't quite know how to solve that problem, he could press his jacket to his crotch when Greg was done with him.

'It's all right,' Greg assured him as he moved downwards again. 'Relax.'

Sherlock tried to focus on the right sensations, but it was almost too easy to roll his hips, slowly and discreetly. It wasn't enough friction, but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to openly hump Greg's bed. He rather liked the tension, he thought. And while it lasted, he didn't have to analyse his surprising sexual awakening and his feelings for Greg.

Greg reached lower than before. His hands were definitely on Sherlock's buttocks. Without squeezing or sliding down, down and inside. Sherlock didn't mind, his mind offered vivid images of that, he could almost feel it, Greg's finger circling his opening, slowly pushing in. With all that oil and touching, it might happen, just like that. His heavy breathing and more noticeable rocking of his hips surely caught Greg's attention. Sherlock wanted to use his hand, but there was no way Greg could miss that. Maybe he would smack Sherlock's hand, push it away and replace it with his own.

'Oh, God,' Sherlock panted, overwhelmed by his desires and imagination.

'Do you want me to stop?' Greg asked. Either he misinterpreted Sherlock's tone or was teasing him.

Sherlock didn't think twice, he asked him to continue. 'Please,' he added brokenly. _Please, don't stop._

Greg's thumbs met at the lowest part of Sherlock's back, right in the middle. They traced the first inch or so of the cleft of his buttocks, lightly, then started stroking the very top of it. Sherlock learnt that it was a very sensitive spot. He didn't know how much of it he could take.

'I... I, ah!' He tried to warn Greg. 'I'm going to-'

'Relax, Sherlock,' Greg repeated. 'Relax and enjoy.'

He knew what was happening, he couldn't miss the suggestive movements of Sherlock's hips, his moans and the flush on Sherlock's cheeks and neck. Sherlock thought about coming home the following morning, with a tell-tale stain on the front of his trousers. Someone could see him leave Greg's car and connected the dots. What if that someone was Mycroft or John. Sherlock realised he didn't care. He only wanted one thing at the moment. He swallowed his pride and thrust against the duvet. Again and again, moaning openly. Greg stroked his cheek, gave it a good squeeze. Sherlock couldn't believe it was actually happening. Greg Lestrade was palming his arse and he was rubbing himself off on his bed. It was wonderful, his orgasm. The very first one achieved with the help of another person. Sherlock gripped the bedding, his whole body tensed up and then he finally relaxed. Slumped on the bed, vaguely aware of his drool on Greg's duvet.

Greg kept touching him. Sherlock lay there with his eyes closed. He didn't want to move, take a shower. He didn't know if he could face Greg. The haze of the afterglow was too pleasant to ruin it. 

Greg was officially too indulgent with him. Not only did he let Sherlock fall asleep right there and then, but he also washed his back with a wet towel and did his best to remove the stain from his trousers. In the morning, Sherlock again woke up curled next to him, his head on Greg's stomach. And Greg again prepared the breakfast and did everything to make Sherlock feel comfortable. There was no morning-after awkwardness or guilt. They ate together and Greg drove Sherlock back to his flat. Sherlock could really get used to that.


	2. Chapter 2

Sixteen days. Sixteen days since the massage. Sherlock didn't have any reason to spend the night at Greg's and Greg didn't invite him. It was good, Sherlock told himself, taking things slow was reasonable. Neither of them wanted to ruin what they had. Also, Sherlock had more than enough time to figure out what he actually wanted and that was Greg. Not any man, only Greg.

That was such surprise, his attraction to Greg. Until their first night together Sherlock was convinced his possessiveness was platonic. He didn't want Greg to get distracted by a new relationship and certainly didn't want him to get back with his now ex-wife. He couldn't tell exactly when his feelings changed. Perhaps he had always felt that way.

On the seventeenth day, John had bad news. Rosie had a stomach bug. John left the clinic early to pick her up and as soon as he lifted her, she threw up on him. John sent him a short text, warning him not to come home unless he wanted to join the party. Sherlock was conflicted. He felt sorry for his goddaughter and his friend, but their misery was his excuse to knock on Greg's door.

Greg, naturally, let him in. He was watching a football match, an important one as he claimed. Sexual experiments had to wait, then. Greg shared his takeaway and beer. Sherlock nibbled chips and took small sips of beer. He definitely didn't want to drink more than one, not after his first and, hopefully, last hangover.

He didn't try to follow the game and didn't annoy Greg with questions about the teams and rules. He noticed how easy it was for them to not talk. Neither of them felt the need to fill the silence. They were on the sofa, close to each other but not touching and that was easy too. Sherlock began to wonder why they didn't spend more time together after work.

Sherlock knew he didn't have to watch the match, but stayed there, on the sofa. He pulled his legs up, trying to find a more comfortable position. No wonder Greg didn't want to sleep there.

Greg glanced at him with a knowing smile. 'Yeah, I know. Come here,' he patted his lap. 'You can rest your legs here.'

Sherlock accepted his offer. He put his legs over Greg's and lay back. Greg's hand was on his thigh, stroking it from time to time. That was so calming, Sherlock barely kept his eyes open. A short nap was a good idea, he thought. He shifted a bit to lay on his side, facing the back of the sofa. Greg was holding his thigh in a loose grip. The backs of Sherlock's thighs were pressed to his leg and while mostly innocent, the contact again stirred something in Sherlock. It reminded him of Irene Adler's text alert. He had never changed it because hearing it felt.. good. Not enough to explore it, but he liked it.

As he was lying there, watching Greg, he thought how uncomplicated that kind of intimacy was between them. Sherlock's usual fear of getting hurt or taken advantage of became a distant memory. Greg was different, he knew that. His presence was comforting and his touch was soothing. Sherlock, whose personal space as so often violated, knew he had nothing to worry about in Greg's flat. Even when he was sleepy and defenceless. That was so different from his encounters with other people. Magnussen, Culverton Smith and even Mary chose the moment when he was heavily medicated and weak to threaten or attack him. And yet, after all those experiences, he trusted Greg enough to sleep next to him. He didn't need to clarify where Greg could and couldn't touch him, he could simply enjoy their closeness.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was a bath person. He loved long, indulgent baths, especially after a particularly complex case. He liked being alone with his thoughts and soaking in soothingly warm water. It was beyond his understanding why some people choose to have only a shower. Only a shower! And yet that was what he found in Greg's bathroom: absolutely no bath. Which, obviously, meant that they had to take a shower together.

Greg agreed that there was no other solution. Apart from eliminating the unpleasant waiting for the other to finish and hoping there was some hot water left, there was going to be no problem with washing their backs. Though flexible, Sherlock always had a feeling a small part of his back was still dirty.

'I know what you mean,' Greg said while helping Sherlock take off his socks. Sherlock hardly needed help with that, but he liked the additional attention. 'I'll be very thorough with your back.'

Sherlock was counting on that.

The bright light in the bathroom made watching Greg undress much more entertaining. Sherlock didn't conceal his interest, his eyes followed Greg's hands. He was staring at him, at his body, although Greg looked exactly like he imagined. Strong arms, grey chest hair and something he heard was called dad tum. It took a lot of willpower to keep his hands to himself, Sherlock discovered, his hand seemingly moved towards Greg without Sherlock's permission. He wanted to touch everything he saw, out of sheer curiosity.

There was little space left when they were both under the stream of water. Sherlock shifted a couple of times to end up in the best position, right under the shower head. Greg let him, but that also meant he had to stay close to Sherlock if he wanted to get his share of water. For a couple of blissful minutes, they just stood there, under the warm spray of water, face to face. Steam filled the bathroom and softened Sherlock's thoughts. All of his problems and worries seemed insignificant, nothing could spoil his enjoyment of the moment. The water was dripping down his hair and into his eyes, he tipped his head back and felt Greg's fingers wiping the wetness away from his eyes. He moved back a little and Greg stepped forward, now most of the water was cascading down his body. He didn't mind sharing it and only smiled when Sherlock clung on to him. It was so peaceful, the hum of water, Greg's breath on his wet skin, Sherlock didn't want it to end.

Eventually, Greg reached behind Sherlock to pick up a bottle. Sherlock stayed still, expecting, hoping, that Greg was going to wash him. He watched as Greg rubbed his hands together and couldn't stop a whine when Greg started lathering himself in quick, efficient moves.

Greg grinned, which only made Sherlock pout. 'Oh, fine. Turn around.' Greg said, amused. He started at the top, from his neck. Sherlock braced both hands against the tiles and almost without thinking, pushed back against Greg. Greg seemed to like that response but soon pressed on Sherlock's shoulder blade to have a better access.

He stroked his hands over his back, down his sides and up his spine. Softer than the last time. Sherlock shuddered when the images flooded his mind. The massage, the touch of Greg's hands, firm and promising.

Greg was indeed thorough. He didn't miss a spot on Sherlock's back. Or on his lower back. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat when he felt Greg's fingers moving lower, much lower. Greg was soaping his hips, for a long moment his hands were still on Sherlock's hipbones and even Sherlock had only one, dirty association with that position. Then Greg's hands ran over his buttocks, starting from his hips. Sherlock instinctively eased into his touch. He felt Greg's fingers between his cheeks, moving slowly downwards. He had all the time in the world to stop him if he wanted to. The pads of Greg's fingers brushed over his hole a couple of times, with increasing pressure and then slid lower, to rest on his thighs. Sherlock, not entirely sure how far he wanted to go at that moment, was grateful and frustrated when Greg told him to turn around.

Greg saw how red his cheeks were and how hard he was, but said nothing and calmly continued washing him. He took Sherlock's left arm and paid extra attention to the insides of his elbows. He repeated the process with the right arm. His hand found its way to Sherlock's throat and despite his violent encounters with stranglers, Sherlock felt no fear. Greg's didn't put much pressure there, he quickly lowered his hands to Sherlock's chest. His thumbs traced his clavicles and seconds later, his nipples, only leaving them when they hardened. Greg's fingers glided over his belly, circled his navel and moved around his impossible to ignore, fully erect penis and soaped his groin and inner thighs. Sherlock was close, very close to begging, but Greg wasn't going to leave even one body part unwashed. Greg grabbed him, stroking slowly from the base to the swollen head and down again. And then he crouched down to wash Sherlock's legs and feet. Sherlock leant back against the wall, fighting the impulse to cup Greg's face in his hands and pull him closer.

After he was rinsed, Greg lowered the temperature of the shower. 'It's good for circulation,' he chuckled when Sherlock jumped away from the cool stream, hissing.

'I think I'm done,' Sherlock stepped out of the shower and quickly wrapped a towel around his shivering body. 'I'm going to bed.'


	4. Chapter 4

Greg didn't keep him waiting. Sherlock had just lain down, unsure if he should face Greg or the wall. Either way, they would wake up embracing. By the time Greg slipped under the covers, Sherlock made up his mind and lay on his side, facing him. Greg invitingly lifted his arm over Sherlock's pillow. No more prompting was needed, Sherlock shuffled closer to him and quietly sighed when Greg's hand rested on his back.

The proper thing to do was to fall asleep. They were still warmed from the shower and Sherlock liked the thought that smelled like the same shower gel. Someone more observant than others could reach the same conclusion about them as he did about Donovan and Anderson. What would happen then? Or maybe people had already been suspecting this? DI Lestrade and his consulting detective, solving crimes by day and releasing sexual tension by night.

Minutes passed. Greg's breathing slowed down. Sherlock couldn't tell if he was sleeping yet. He was tempted to ask: 'Are you awake?' but didn't. He tried to stop thinking and start sleeping. Curled next to Greg's body, his cheek pressed to Greg's chest. He imagined slipping his hand under Greg's t-shirt, feeling his skin. Or, even better, moving in the other direction, down his belly and lower, stroking tentatively his soft cock and feel it harden in his hand. He had an idea about its size, how big Greg's erection was and wondered how it'd feel... in his hand, in his mouth... inside him. He wasn't greatly experienced, the furthest he went was using a small dildo, just to know how it feels and if he could handle that kind of penetration. The conclusion that he reached was that yes, he definitely could. The memory of his first orgasm achieved with the help of anal stimulation sent a wave of heat down his body. It had never been that intense, afterwards, he couldn't move, he just lay, open-mouthed, shaking. The very idea that-

'Be a good boy and go to sleep,' Greg said suddenly. He didn't sound angry, the sternness in his voice suggested something else. 'It's very distracting.'

Sherlock didn't notice he got hard, again, involuntarily letting Greg feel it. Unlike the first time, now they weren't in a rush. Greg didn't have to get up and go to work. He could... Sherlock couldn't believe how natural the solution was. The simplest one. Nevertheless, he tried to suppress the need burning inside him. _A good boy_ , his mind replayed the moment Greg said that. The tone of his voice, Sherlock's distracting erection...

'Sherlock. Think about something boring. Like a full-time job.'

It wasn't working. Greg was still holding him close and his low voice in the dark and his body right against Sherlock's, none of it was helping.

'I can't,' he mumbled, waiting for the only reasonable suggestion from Greg.

A moment of silence. 'Do you need my help?'

Sherlock never replied quicker to any question. 'Yes.'

'Turn around. But after this, you're going to sleep, like a good boy.'

Sherlock lay on his other side and Greg spooned him from behind. For a moment, Sherlock let himself imagine what it'd be like if Greg simply took him, right then and there, just like that. He could grab Sherlock's hips, hold him down and press into him. It'd hurt, but only for a moment and then...

Greg's hand was now on Sherlock's naked thigh, moving upwards. Greg heard Sherlock's heavy breathing, sensed his excitement. Sherlock's couldn't wait for what was about to happen. With anyone else, there'd be awkwardness or worry, but not with him. Sherlock felt his breath on his neck, Greg's lips were almost touching his skin, almost kissing. His hand reached its target and his fingertips stroked the hardness.

'It's all right,' Greg whispered when Sherlock shivered at the contact. 'I'll be gentle.'

He held it in a loose grip to let Sherlock get used to the new sensation. Sherlock gasped when the grip suddenly tightened, his hips bucked automatically.

'Be still.'

Greg moved his hand up and down, slowly at first. He paused every now and then to thumb the head and smear the moisture he found there. Sherlock was lost in the new kind of bliss. Greg's hand was strong and warm, his mouth was definitely touching the nape of his neck. He tried to listen to what Greg said, but it was hard. Everything inside him urged him to thrust into Greg's fist, rock his hips into it and then... and then back, shyly at first. How fast would it turn into desperate grinding?

'I think you're getting close,' Greg murmured in his ear. He kissed Sherlock's cheek, lightly. Without a doubt, Sherlock turned his head to face him. Greg kissed the corner of his mouth, then his lips. The caress was gentle, soft, unlike the way Greg was squeezing and stroking him. The combination was unbearable and delightful.

'Good boy,' Greg said with a smile when Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and broke the kiss to moan into the pillow.

Sherlock couldn't ignore the hot, stiff length pressing against his arse. Greg was sliding against him, the thin fabric of his bottoms rubbing against the tender skin. Greg was mouthing Sherlock's neck, perhaps thinking about leaving a mark there. Something to hide under a scarf, a sweet secret only they would know about. His hand moved faster and faster.

Something was rising up in Sherlock. He bit his lip to keep the word to himself, one word that was shining brightly in his mind, so obvious it almost didn't need to be uttered. But Greg was still there, holding him, controlling him, calling him a boy.

'Daddy,' Sherlock whimpered, his voice changed by arousal. He feared Greg would stop, but he carried on without a moment of hesitation. 'Daddy, please.'

'Do you want to come?' Greg asked so naturally as he waited to hear that one word from Sherlock. 'Do you want to come for Daddy?'

'Yes.'

The whole exchange was as smooth as if rehearsed.

Sherlock couldn't stop it, he couldn't be still anymore. He grabbed Greg's fist and rode it desperately until he came, harder than ever before.

He lost track of time, drunk on the mixture of oxytocin and Greg's little kisses on his neck and shoulder. They didn't need to talk, not just yet, about what happened and about Sherlock's newly discovered kink. For now, the silence and the comfortable intimacy were enough.

Sherlock let go of Greg's hand and he released his now soft member. Sherlock assumed he would wipe his hand, but Greg said, 'Good boys clean their messes' and Sherlock wanted to be a good boy, his good boy. Without lifting his head, he took Greg by the wrist and brought his cum-stained hand to his mouth. That wasn't the first time he tasted himself, another experiment, although now it was completely different. Not just the fact that he was licking Greg's fingers, taking them into his mouth and sucking with unexpected enthusiasm. He was, he understood, doing this to please Greg. To please Daddy.

When he was done and Greg kissed him again, long and deeply this time, Sherlock made a move to turn around and reciprocate. Greg stopped him. 'Sleep now.' Sherlock didn't want to argue, Not with Daddy.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke up alone. He moved his hand, searching for Greg and found nothing. After a moment, he recalled a dream about an annoying noise and someone telling him to go back to sleep. On one hand, he liked not getting up as early as Greg, on the other, he was disappointed he missed breakfast. Tea and toast and 'what happened last night'. Memories came back in waves. The shower. The kiss. His first handjob. Calling Greg Daddy.

Discovering his new kink was as fascinating as discovering Greg's. The way Greg reacted suggested strongly that it wasn't the first time. He knew he was a Daddy. Middle-aged, grey-haired, experienced. Strong, patient, caring. Understanding, trustworthy and hot. The ideal Daddy. Better not to think who first whispered to him sultrily _Daddy_.

The more puzzling was Sherlock's attraction to an older man. He never thought he had any age preference, never caught himself searching for any specific characteristic in men. He was sure he didn't have daddy issues, his father was clueless and frustrating, but he was there, clumsily supporting Sherlock. There was no abuse or hostility, no reason to look for another father figure. Sherlock couldn't say he had ever felt unloved or neglected, not when he had such an overbearing big brother. Perhaps there was no correlation between his family life and his private life. Perhaps it was just a natural affinity he and Greg had for each other. Years of friendship, sharing a bed a couple of times, age difference, maybe it wasn't surprising at all that Sherlock said  _Daddy._

He lazed the morning away in Greg's bed. Lying on Greg's side, hugging his pillow. He wasn't fantasising about him, he simply wondered what they could do the following night and how many times. He had no new cases, the best time to rest. Around noon, John texted him that the worst was over and both he and Rosie were feeling better. Nothing was stopping Sherlock from getting dressed and returning to his flat, nothing except...

Even before he left Greg's flat, he found a solution. On his way to Baker Street, he could buy coffee and something sweet and bring them to the Met building. Nothing weird about that, although he had never done that before. It wasn't a romantic gesture like flowers, it was a necessity, fuel for the overworked detective inspector. And since it was 12:20, it was no longer the morning after.

 

Satisfied with his clever plan, Sherlock marched into Greg's office. He had a double espresso that he knew Greg liked and a powdered doughnut. Greg looked up from a folder he was holding and his expression instantly changed from bored to worried.

'Oh God, what happened?' He asked, alarmed. 'What did you do?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock replied and closed the door. 'I was in the area. It's almost one. You do drink coffee around this time.'

Greg relaxed and accepted the gifts. Sherlock sat in the chair opposite him and watched as Greg cautiously took a small sip as if he expected his least favourite coffee.

'Oh,' he said, surprised when he recognised the taste. 'I didn't think you could be bothered with remembering such unimportant details.'

Greg looked like he needed a break. He set the documents aside, put his feet up on the desk and took a large bite of the doughnut. Sherlock opened his mouth to say what he had to say, but the powdered sugar on Greg's lip distracted him. He imagined kissing him now, licking the sugar off his lips.

Greg didn't mind his staring. He quickly finished the doughnut and washed the last mouthful with a gulp of coffee. He gave Sherlock a long look and said, 'Listen, it's ok. You don't need to explain anything, We can carry on as usual. You can sleep in my bed again if you want. No pressure.'

That was reassuring, but Sherlock had to talk to someone about his unexpected discovery and he could only discuss that with Greg.

'I don't know where that came from,' Sherlock confessed. As soon as he sad that, he felt his cheeks heat up. Daddy. Greg's voice asking if he wanted to come for Daddy. The room was suddenly too warm, clothes too tight. 'I never... That was the first time. I don't know what came over me.'

Greg nodded, sipping his coffee. After a moment, he said, 'You know, I had no warning signs either. When my marriage ended, I thought that dating would be more or less the same as when I was young. Little did I know. My very first date, umm, introduced me to this idea and I gave it a go. It was odd, the first time someone asked me to bend them over my knee, but it's fun. It's not something that will scar you for life.'

Sherlock hoped no one was going to interrupt them. He certainly didn't look as cool and collected as usual. Greg implied he put someone over his knee and that he liked it. That was an intriguing image.

'Did you do that?'

'What, the spanking?' Greg smiled knowingly. He mentioned that on purpose, Sherlock was sure. 'Yeah. I wasn't into that either. I had to learn a lot since the divorce.'

Sherlock expected him to ask if he wanted to try it. Greg didn't, he simply watched Sherlock, correctly assuming what was on his mind. Spanking. The submissive position, Greg's hand on the back of his neck, loud smacking noise mixed with other suggestive noises. Greg's soothing hand rubbing the inflamed skin, Sherlock promising to be good. And later he could slide off Geg's lap and settle between his legs to make him feel good...

'I find this situation confusing,' Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice level and not ask Greg for an intimate favour.

Greg took his feet off the desk, leant closer to Sherlock and asked, 'Do you want to be my good boy? Hmm? Do you want to suck Daddy's cock?'

That made Sherlock's mouth water and his heart beat faster. He had to admit, those words and Greg's tone of voice ignited something inside him. Greg didn't even touch him, all they did was talk and yet Sherlock was close to being hot and bothered.

Embarrassingly slowly it dawned on him that Greg was not actually suggesting oral sex in his office.

'Fine. I'll say it.' Sherlock took a deep breath and announced quietly, 'I have a daddy kink.'

Greg grinned and sat back, satisfied. 'I knew it. Don't worry, Daddy will take care of you.'

Sherlock was hoping for that.

 

Rosie was kind enough to take a nap. John was exhausted, he slept no more than two hours the previous night. Sherlock felt bad for him and tried to appear sympathetic. He even offered to make tea. That didn't stop John from glancing at him questioningly.

'Where did you spend last night?' John asked eventually.

Sherlock shrugged and turned to face the kettle that was about to boil. 'At Mycroft's. Do we have any biscuits left?'

John couldn't find any. Sherlock went downstairs to ask if Mrs Hudson had some. He checked his reflection in the mirror. It was a myth, he told himself, that a friend can tell when another friend had sex. He didn't think there was anything unusual about his appearance. John was just sleep-deprived and curious.

 

That night, lying in his own bed, Sherlock solved the baffling case of his new kink. Both of his parents weren't particularly impressed with his abilities, his deductions often upset or irritated them. When he would explain his deductions, his father pretended he listened, but it was obvious that he waited for Sherlock to stop talking. With time, Sherlock learnt to let it go and accepted that a conversation with his father meant simply listening to what he had to say. His father was content with asking Sherlock about school, then work and expected a short answer.

Greg, on the other hand, he listened. The very first person who took him seriously, the first police officer who valued his input. Even when Sherlock used his usual defence mechanism and insulted him, Greg still asked for his help. He listened.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was waiting for Greg. The official reason was a bizarre case that Greg wanted him to take. John was on his way to Baker Street and Sherlock tried to predict who was going to arrive sooner. Even one minute mattered.

Greg came first. Outside it was drizzling and there were still raindrops on Greg's face and clothes. Sherlock came up to him without knowing what he was going to do and they kissed. Only after a moment did Sherlock realise John could notice his oddly damp and wrinkled clothes, but he didn't protest when Greg pressed him up against the wall. He let Greg do as he pleased, loving every moment of it. He didn't quite understand why he liked kissing, he always thought it was unsanitary and pointless. Now, however, when he was trapped between the wall and Greg, with his eyes closed and hands gripping Greg's shoulders, he didn't want it to end. Greg's hand in his hair and his tongue sliding into his mouth made Sherlock shiver with desire.

He heard the door downstairs, then familiar footsteps. Greg heard that too, but neither of them stopped. Only when John was about to open the door to the flat did Greg move away from Sherlock. Sherlock pretended he was having a coughing fit, just in case his cheeks were flushed and his breathing suspiciously hard.

'Are you all right?' John asked. That was his doctor's voice. He probably thought it was the result of Sherlock's past addiction or another 'gift' from Rosie.

'I'm fine. Lestrade, let's start.'

They sat down and Greg started talking about the case A body was found by the Regent's canal, the man was stabbed. No witnesses, no motive, his wallet and phone weren't stolen, he seemed not to have enemies.

'The thing is, he was on his way home from the flat he shared with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He refused to gave her his key and when she was at work, he went there and took her engagement ring. It disappeared. I'm pretty sure the person who stabbed him didn't take it, it was less expensive than his phone or his watch.'

Sherlock couldn't believe he got out of bed and dressed for that. 'And?'

'The ring. The wife claims it's cursed. The victim thought it was nonsense, but his marriage fell apart and as soon as he took the ring, he got stabbed. Not that I believe something like that can happen, but why would someone kill him for nothing and leave all the valuable things he had for us to find?'

'Oh, my God,' Sherlock groaned. He turned to John, who looked pensive. 'John?'

'Sounds strange.' Jonh glanced at the wedding ring that he didn't take off yet.

'Please, tell me you don't believe in cursed rings.'

John didn't answer. Hiss not particularly happy marriage ended badly not because of bad luck, but because of poor choices of everyone involved. Sherlock wanted John to think about it rationally and not let personal drama cloud his judgement.

Sherlock looked at Greg. 'Did you rule out suicide?'

'Yes. We didn't find the knife and I guess he didn't eat it. Also, he was right-handed and the wound was on the left side.' Greg opened the file he brought and read, 'Between the sixth and the seventh rib on the left side.'

'Right, then. This case is ridiculous, but I want to prove to both of you that cursed rings do not exist and therefore cannot cause anyone's death. The wife, let's start with her. Obviously, she has the motive, the question is if she also had the opportunity.'

 

Sherlock and John went to talk to the widow. She was distraught and her grief seemed genuine. She mentioned her late husband's family warned him against giving her the ring, as it supposedly brought misfortune to fours married couples before them. Sherlock took a long, deep breath to not insult her intelligence. John noticed his struggle and asked about her whereabouts on the night of the murder. Sadly, she had a cast-iron alibi, she was at work, seen by dozens of colleagues and her story was confirmed by the CCTV.

After they had visited the victim's workplace and his new flat, they were no closer to solving the case. Boring, predictable life, no addictions, no connections to dangerous people.

'Maybe it was just the wrong place, the wrong time?'

'Maybe. Next stop, the body.'

The pathologist was puzzled by the lack of defence wounds. There was only one, fatal wound, right where Lestrade said. The man was quite healthy, didn't suffer from any deadly disease that could make him consider suicide.

'So, where now/? The crime scene?' John checked the time. 'I have plans later. I have only an hour.'

'I'll text Lestrade, then,' Sherlock said casually, pleased with himself. 'He can be helpful.'

'Great,' John couldn't sound any less interested.

 

The body was found behind a tree, surrounded by nettles, ragwort and cow parsley. There was a broken bottle right next to where the body was, again raising the question of why the victim didn't fight. On his clothes, there was only his DNA and his blood. Sherlock examined the spot carefully, studied crushed and broken stems of the weeds, unbothered by the constant drizzle. John looked around, returned to the towpath and walked past the Sherlock, then came back.

'I don't think he could be seen from the towpath. Based on the blood loss it took him up to forty-five minutes to lose consciousness, I wonder why he didn't try to crawl out of here to get help.'

Greg joined them five minutes later. Sherlock let him know in his text that John was going to be busy afterwards and they were both quietly excited. Something could happen that day.

'So, what do you think?' Lestrade hid his enthusiasm well. 'Random stabbing, a mugging gone wrong?'

'Perhaps. I think the killer wanted to mug him, but someone was coming and he ran away. John said the victim had three-quarters of an hour of consciousness. What would he do? Supposing he was too weak to crawl away from here, what else could he do save himself? He couldn't call anyone, the battery was flat, what else might save his life?'

John looked down at his hand. 'The ring. He wanted to get rid of it. He wasn't superstitious until then. He threw it away.'

'Not bad, John. Lie down here, this could be the ring,' Sherlock said as he gave him a pebble.

John shook his head. 'It's been raining all day. I have a meeting soon and I won't have time to change.'

Greg didn't need to be asked. He lay on the ground and pretended to be a wounded man wanting to throw the ring as far as he could. At first, searching through weeds and rubbish didn't seem that bad, but after ten minutes John gave up.

'It's pointless. Someone could've found it already. I have to go.'

Sherlock and Greg continued searching for the ring and/or any other clue. The rain got heavier and eventually, Sherlock had to agree with John, it was pointless. They found nothing.

'He was in his fifties and his marriage was about to end. I think he could've paid someone to kill him and make it look like this,' Sherlock gestured at the place where the body was found. 'To make it look like the ring killed him and he was a strong, well-adjusted man who couldn't possibly be depressed and suicidal.'

Greg nodded and came up to him. 'Not the best case for John, I must say. I know you wanted to find some solid evidence. Does this make you feel better?' He put his hand on Sherlock's buttock.

Sherlock considered it only for a short moment. 'Yes, actually.'

'Good.' Greg palmed his arse, then took a look at his clothes and noticed, 'I'm soaking wet and dirty. All I think about now is a hot shower.'

They set off along the canal and Sherlock suggested an alternative to a shower. John was out and Greg was free, he couldn't let an opportunity like that slide.

 

'Oh, God,' Greg groaned as he got into the tub filled with hot water. He sat down and leaned back, the expression of utter bliss softened his features. 'You're right, that's what I needed after a long day.'

They went to Sherlock's flat just so Greg could take a bath. John was still out and Sherlock wanted to use that opportunity to spend some time with Greg in his own bed. For now, though, all he got was watching him lay in the tub. Sherlock changed his clothes, checked his phone to see if John was about to come home and returned to the bathroom. Greg was relaxing and clearly didn't intend to involve Sherlock in his bath. Sherlock stood by the tub, staring at him and considered joining him. But Greg looked so content, he might not appreciate the interruption and half of the water spilling on the floor.

'I think you want something,' Lestrade muttered without opening his eyes.

'Yes. Can I join you?'

Greg thought about it for a while. A dreamy hot bath was soothing, sharing a tub wasn't particularly comfortable.

'Please, Daddy,' Sherlock tried again. He didn't get used to saying that out loud yet.

'I like it when you ask nicely. Fine, get in.'

Sherlock sat opposite him, between his feet and struggled to fit his legs in the small space between their bodies. Greg shifted to give him some more room and again shut his eyes to take some rest. His hand was on Sherlock's thigh, but unmoving. Sherlock had imagined bathing together with him and compared to his fantasies, that was an anti-climax.

He wanted to move forward, bend over him and press his lips to Greg's chest, but Greg's foot was suddenly on his chest. 'Be still. Let me enjoy this, I don't remember that last time I took a long bath.'

Sherlock wasn't too happy about that but hoped his good behaviour would be rewarded. He didn't disturb Greg, his mind wandered off too. It was hard to unwind in his position, but he tried to focus on the warmth of the water and quietness of the bathroom. Neither of them moved, everything seemed to be perfectly still. Sherlock's eyelids suddenly became heavy. He wondered what John would do if he found them sleeping in the tub.

When they finally got out the tub, Greg towelled him off, as always, very thoroughly. Sherlock forgot about other disappointing moments that day and enjoyed the attention. Even more when Greg opened the door to the bedroom and went in. He followed him, leaving the evidence behind. He couldn't be expected to clean the bathroom in that very moment. Not when a nude Greg Lestrade was in his bedroom.

Greg pulled him towards him and on the bed, then lay on top of him. He kissed bottom lip, then looked at him and asked, 'Now that I have my boy naked and clean under me, what should I do to him?'

Sherlock had lots of ideas, but before he picked one, Greg decided for him and started moving backwards, leaving a trail of soft kisses down Sherlock's chest and stomach. He didn't stop there. His hands settled on Sherlock's hips, holding him firmly in place. Sherlock lifted his head off the bed to watch him lean over his erection. Greg met his gaze and held it as he teasingly tongued only the tip. The feeling, while delicate, sent shivers through Sherlock's body and he lay back on the bed. Watching and feeling it, that was too much. He felt Greg's lips close around him. His tongue was still sliding over the head, Greg clearly intended to drive him mad with desire. The sensation was delightful, but everything inside Sherlock told him to grab Greg's head and pull him down, fill his mouth. He clenched his hands on the bedding instead.

His whimpers caught Greg's attention and he let him slip out of his mouth. 'Do you like Daddy's tongue?'

Sherlock nodded eagerly.

'But you want something more, don't you?' Greg continued. 'Ask Daddy for it.'

Sherlock looked at him. 'Daddy, can you... can you suck me?'

Greg grinned. 'You want Daddy to suck you off? You want to come in Daddy's mouth?'

Sherlock's hips jerked in Greg's grip. 'Yes. Please, Daddy.'

'All right. You've been good and you asked nicely.'

That time, there was no teasing. Greg set to work with determination, sucked hard and from time to time let Sherlock's cock fill him completely. Every time that happened, Sherlock couldn't contain his moans. The heat and friction felt amazing, he had never experienced that kind of pleasure. He wanted it to last and wanted to thrust into Greg's mouth, but Greg was still pinning him down to the bed. The lack of control was secretly thrilling. Sherlock realised he was helpless and could only receive what Daddy wanted to give him. It became even more apparent when suddenly there was a finger between his buttocks, the touch firm. Sherlock felt it trace his opening, then press at it. He squirmed in response, unsure if he wanted to get away or push onto the finger. He gasped when it was inside him, just the tip, but the added sensation made him shudder and come. He felt Greg swallow it and remove his finger. His body was still twitching and shaking, his breath came in heavy gasps, the pleasure still rolling through him.

Greg's face was suddenly right over his. 'What do you say?'

'Thank you, Daddy.'

'Did you like it when I put my finger inside you?'

'Yes, Daddy.'

'It made you come faster, didn't it?'

'I think so.' Sherlock felt a bit tired and hazy, but there was one more thing he wanted to try. Greg was hard and it was touching his belly. He wanted to learn how to make him feel good and had been thinking about it since Greg mentioned it in his office. It couldn't be complicated, all he had to do was to mimic what Greg did and he made it look so easy. 'Daddy, can I suck you now?'

'Is that what you want?'

Sherlock kissed him and slid his hand between them to give Greg a promising fondle. Greg took that as a yes and sat up. Sherlock was about to do the same, but Greg stopped him with a hand on his chest. 'No, stay as you are.'

Sherlock hesitantly lay down again. Greg moved up, his bent legs on the either side of Sherlock's shoulders and something hot and heavy nudged Sherlock's chin.

'Just relax, boy, I promise I'll make it easy for you. All you have to do is suck. Don't worry, I won't choke you,' Greg assured him. He closed a hand around himself and brought it closer to Sherlock's lips, smearing precome there. Sherlock still had doubts about the position, his arms were trapped between Greg's legs, but his mouth fell open invitingly. Greg tapped the head of his cock against his bottom lip and after a moment, filled Sherlock's mouth.

Greg did as he promised. He set a slow pace and kept his thrust shallow. It helped Sherlock get used to the foreign sensation of a cock sliding down his tongue. He sucked and swallowed, used his tongue and remembered to mind his teeth. He closed his eyes to concentrate, but Greg patted his cheek and told him to look at him. Sherlock, unused to taking orders, obediently did that. Their eyes locked and Sherlock made sure Greg liked what he saw. He could only imagine how he looked, lips wrapped around Greg, sucking as best as he could. It'd have been different if he was allowed to use his hands. Then he wouldn't have looked so helpless. He could only trust Greg wasn't going to get carried away and push all the way in, into his throat. The longer it lasted, the less certain he was he wouldn't like it.

Greg kept his hand on his cheek, stroking it to comfort him, but then he also pressed his fingers to feel the hardness inside Sherlock's mouth. 'You're doing so well, Sherlock, making Daddy so happy.'

That helped. Sherlock thought he could get used to the discomforts of that position and the new sensations. He wanted Daddy to be pleased with him.

He was getting tired, though and felt relieved when Greg pulled out.

'Wait. Open. Show me your tongue.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the quick movements of his hand but focused his gaze on Greg's eyes and watched him as he orgasmed and grimaced only a little at the feeling of sperm staining his face. He licked him clean, listening to Greg's panting and then cleaned his face the way Daddy expected him to.

Greg lay next to him for a couple of minutes. Sherlock liked having him in his bed. He also liked the praise Greg was rather generous with and a hand smoothing his messy hair. He wished Greg could stay a little longer, but he'd rather keep his secret a secret.

'So, that's what a blowjob feels like,' he mumbled just to start a conversation and prevent Greg leaving just yet. 'Hmm.'

'Yeah. This is what happens when you're good,' Greg said, clearly encouraging him to ask what happened when he was bad.

Sherlock had already known the answer. Spanking. Greg had mentioned it just to pique his curiosity and it worked. For now, Greg's touch was gentle and caring. Sherlock wondered how it'd feel like when Greg would stop being so tender. Obviously, there was only one way to find out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a documentary about the Ripper 'Jack the Ripper: the new evidence.' It's on YouTube.

Sherlock had sensible plans for the evening. He had spent the whole afternoon playing with Rosie and needed to do something more ambitious than reading aloud a four-page book. He was going to start by taking a shower to wash off Rosie's abstract paintings on his forearms. When he was taking his clothes off, Greg called.

'Do you want to check a theory about Jack the Ripper with me?'

Sherlock thought about that time Anderson wasted his time. It was only right to replace that memory with another, more pleasant one and figure out how the Ripper did it.

'Fine.'

'I'm five minutes away from your flat. Meet me outside.'

Sherlock put his shirt back on to cover his temporary tattoos. He quickly put his coat on and sneaked out of the flat to avoid telling John anything.

He waited only a moment or two before he saw Greg's car. He got in and felt an impulse to greet Greg with a kiss, but stopped himself.

'So, where are we going?'

'Doveton Street,' Greg replied without looking at him. 'I saw a documentary about a highly suspicious man who was at the second crime scene. His address was 22 Doveton Street and we'll start there.'

Even with his limited knowledge about the Ripper's killings, Sherlock knew at once which murder that was about. Mary Ann Nichols, known as Polly, killed on 31 August 1888.

'I hope you're not using the Ripper as an excuse to get my attention, as Anderson did,' Sherlock said and put his hand on Greg's knee. 'You can always just invite me to your flat.'

'You really shouldn't distract a driver this way,' Greg swatted his hand and smirked. 'Also, you're not the type that waits for an invitation.'

'That's true,' Sherlock agreed.

Before they arrived at their destination, Sherlock tried to recall what he knew about the second victim of the Ripper. He did remember her injuries were less extensive. There was no removal of the organs, skin or tissue. Also, the street where the body was found was Buck's Row, just rows of terraced houses with no immediate escape route. And somehow the Ripper disappeared to continue his work.

Greg parked the car on Daveton Street and took a bunch of files with him. Sherlock got out of the car and looked around. They were quite close to Buck's Row.

'A Charles Allen Cross lived here,' Greg pointed to one of the houses. 'Polly Nichols's body was found by two men,' Greg took a look at the papers, 'Robert Paul and Charles Allen Cross. That morning, Paul was late for work and kept an eye on the time. He claimed he entered Buck's Row at 3:45 and saw only two people: Polly Nichols, lying on the pavement and a man leaning over her, Cross. Curiously, Paul and Cross shared the same route to work but didn't see each other or anyone else as they approached Nichols. Cross claimed he left the house at 3:30. We'll follow his route to work. Check the time.'

The street layout was the same. They walked towards the crime scene at a normal pace. Sherlock remarked that the Ripper had to be an ordinary man living locally, someone who had a good reason to be outside at night. 'He had to knew the area very well and something about him made him invisible to witnesses.'

They arrived there seven minutes later. Greg shook his head. 'Huh. Cross claimed it took him sixteen minutes to get here.'

'Eight full minutes left.'

Greg opened the file he was holding and read, 'Twelve major stab wounds. Bruises on the right side of the jaw, consistent with manual strangulation. Injuries to the neck, the incision severed all the tissues. How long would it take to inflicts these injuries?'

'Two-three minutes,' Sherlock replied, staring at the spot where the victim was found. Nothing about it looked unusual in the dim streetlight. 'Also, she was strangled first, that means the killer wouldn't be covered in blood.'

'Listen to this, 'Greg turned the pages and read, 'Paul didn't think Polly was dead. He didn't see blood and claimed the victim was breathing. He wanted to prop her up, but Cross said he wouldn't touch her. Paul went to find a policeman and Cross went with him, although he was supposed to stay there with Polly. They saw PC Mizen and not only did Cross said the woman was _lying_ in Buck's Row, but also that there was a policeman there already and he requested Mizen's assistance.'

'Wait, but there was a policeman at the crime scene,' Sherlock interrupted him. He vaguely remembered the victim was found in a pool of blood by a police constable.

'Yeah, there was. PC Neil. But Cross couldn't have known that. He was lying. He also insisted he wasn't alone with Polly, but Paul saw no one else.'

'Wait. If Robert Paul didn't notice Polly's throat was cut, it means the wounds were very fresh. There was little blood at the scene at that time. It also explains why Polly wasn't put on display, like other victims. It'd be easy for the Ripper to pull her clothes down to hide abdominal wounds. That's why Cross refused to touch her. One move and it'd be obvious she was fatally injured.'

'That's not all. Cross only appeared at the inquest after Paul gave an interview and mentioned him. Unsurprisingly, Cross wasn't his real name. It was Lechmere. He was a carman and delivered meat to butchers.'

'No one would notice blood stains on his clothes, then.'

'Two victims were murder outside Whitechapel, near where he grew up. One by Lechmere's mother's house. All of the victims were found on Lechmere's routes to work.'

'Perfect cover. He had the opportunity, but what about the motive?'

Greg opened the file. 'He moved many times. Numerous step-fathers. Twelve children. Very close to his mother. He moved away from her two months before the first killing and left his daughter with her.'

Sherlock couldn't let it go without checking what exactly Paul could've seen. Greg added Paul didn't see Lechmere for a full minute when he came into Buck's Row and only noticed him when Lechmere stepped back from the body. Naturally, Greg had to go back to test that, while Sherlock was leaning over the pavement. It was quiet and Sherlock heard footsteps before Greg was close enough to see what he was doing. Plenty of time to rearrange the body and hide the wounds.

'Brilliant,' Sherlock declared as he stood up. 'It was only his second time and although he was interrupted, he managed to escape. He lied about his name and the details of the crime scene and got away with it. Neat.'

'Unless he was the unluckiest man in London whose route to work went right through the Ripper's territory. But it does explain how the Ripper left the last rime scene soaked in blood and wasn't noticed by anyone. Hmm. I guess at this point, we'll never know the whole truth, but this guy is a prime suspect.'

They went back to the car and only then did it occur to Sherlock that it actually fit John's description of a date. They were two people who liked each other, they went out and had fun. He enjoyed that sort of the first date more than something as boring and traditional as going on a picnic. He glanced at Greg and wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Probably. Perhaps he even spent some time trying to come up with the best idea for their first date and made sure Sherlock wouldn't complain the whole time. He knew him so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super busy at work. This fic won't be abandoned, I have lots of ideas.


End file.
